


Breathe

by cryptoloqy



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Flashbacks, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Other, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Tenth Doctor Angst, The Doctor (Doctor Who) Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-26
Updated: 2019-09-26
Packaged: 2020-10-28 17:31:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20782415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cryptoloqy/pseuds/cryptoloqy
Summary: The Doctor is reminded of the past after redecorating. Oneshot; short story TW (small) mentions of s*lf h*rm and detailed description of a p*nic att*ck, I really don’t mean to hurt anyone with this I wrote it when I wasn’t in such a great place ahah.





	Breathe

**Author's Note:**

> pretend they're stuck in the human world because I finished this for school and changed the main character to a boy named theo so people won't find it strange that i write fanfictions

His hair, an unruly umber, is plastered against his head by the beaded sweat from his hauling boxes; from redecorating his room. It’s a new place to restart, far away from loss and grief. Yet, mimics of the past are still there, the hole in the wall from a loose nail, his clothes, his presence—something the Doctor cringes at the state of, something he despises with such passion that his heart screams with horror, every second of its persistence. His blanched button-down clings onto his solitary frame, revealing a few new scars caused by his rather rattled, unknown demons than the battles against the nature of his past. They scale up the back of his right hand, leaving long, scraggly gashes. It isn’t great, the look, and the man knows so, but there is nothing he can do but stand in front of the woman with tears streaming down her face; the woman dressed in red, the woman he’s trying, desperately, to trust.

Shaking forcefully, the Doctor squeezes his eyes shut.  
Don’tthinkaboutitdon’tthinkaboutitdon’tthinkaboutit.

But there was nothing he could execute. He feels his phone vibrate against his thigh, releasing a jolt of energy throughout his figure—without a split second it’s hurled at the opposing wall and this arms reaching out midair grasp his own torso and his body convulses, arms crossed and knees pressed flat against the wooden panels beneath him. He gasps for breath, quivering, shaking his head vigorously.

He can't repeat it. The phone is where it all began. The horror, the missteps, the blood pooled in his palms, over cases he lost. Over people he knows not to see again. He can’t repeat it, therefore letting someone in is out of question. He can’t answer; he can’t know. Not the family he’d killed, not the companions who came to him for the safety that he either lost or left or killed.

The phone’s screen is smashed and the woman of red-ish hair and red apparel picks it up, placing it in the Doctor’s cold grasp, but he lets it fall to his feet.

“Pick it up, dear,” the woman says, “it’s alright.”

He straightens up, glaring into her eyes.

“It’s fine, Donna” he mumbles. “ ‘m fine. Go, please.”

Donna carefully reaches for the phone and sets it behind her on the newly-built bed in the newly-built room, full of boxes and storage. 

“Doctor, it’s alright, look. Nothing there.” she says.

The word tumbles in his brain.

Nothingnothingnothingnothingnothing.

The identification of the man, self-crowned king of the dead.

The Doctor was nothing.

Nothing without the people he had lost. He can’t stand the people he, himself, ruined. His head pounding with eradicating pin-pointed ideas, all crawling towards the fact that he is wrong, he messed up, they died.

“Why do I hurt everyone like this?” the Doctor whispers, barely audible, hands in front of his eyes; blood on top of skin— the drawing curtains of his imagination. 

“Doctor, why would you say such a thing?” Donna says.

“Because I do,” he spits, standing to Donna; hands shaken and drawn to his length, a finger pointing at the oakwood planks that marbleized the floor of his bedroom. His body leaning towards hers. Thoughts aching; him being desperate to come forward, while rare and jagged breaths—he heaves of exhaustion. It is a moment, silent, till suddenly, the Doctor loses his weight, crashing into the spilling cardboard boxes behind him. 

Muttering “no” between his head shaking and familiar regrasping of his hair; the Doctor’s body caves into itself, as if amid the cowering pain of which the memories felt lack of. The long legs collapse into his rarely rising chest, his arms clung desperately to his head, as if it was the last straw of strength within his feet, head burying within the lopsided assemblage of his limbs.

The Doctor opens his eyes, counting milliseconds of whether or not to speak again, and at the slight ajaration of his mouth, shuts his eyes again and winces, pressing further into wall the boxes have fallen to reveal. He feels the searing air of the cramped bedroom suffocate him until his breaths are no longer quick and desperate but deep and scarce, his eyes no longer strained and jotting from place to place but all are closed and eased.

When he comes to, Donna’s in front of him holding a steaming cup of brown translucent liquid, tears faded traceless.

“Talk,” she says, gently taking a seat on the cold floor, propping her back against the bed.

She hands him the cup of tea.

The Doctor grasps the mug between his cold, twitchy hands. He’s shivering, while it’s near 80 degrees; shivering while his chest burns at the unfathomable heat of fire. He opens his mouth to speak, but only hiccups on his own breathing, grasping the mug tighter as the tea splashes back and forth. He wants to speak, as he did at first, but his trust only mimics his silence, and he desperately gazes at Donna to let her know that he is fine, while the other side of him screams to let her know. the Doctor’s eyes try to convey these messages, while his mouth only gapes at his silence. 

"Breathe in with me," Donna says.

He pauses his breath for a second, allowing his attention to flow to his friend. 

“One two three four, hold two three four, out two three four.” Donna states, breathing to her instructions.

the Doctor tries to follow her count, chest rising and falling as the numbers spill out of Donna’s mouth. It’s working, and his breath slowly evens out, and his fingers leave the cold abyss of the arctic. He fades into a more humane form of himself, with rosy cheeks and steady hands. 

Talktalktalktalk  
Sayitsayitsayitsayit

The Doctor’s mind urges him to open up, to let fall the demons of his nature. To battle a battle in which he’s no longer alone. He shakily holds the cup up to his lips and lets the liquid flow down his throat, gulping. His eyes graze Donna’s, as she stares at him unevenly, her face of softened sorrow, hazel eyes murky, eyebrows pointing to her mousy hairline. 

“I’m sorry,” he began, shifting his feet to more comfortably place himself against the wall, “She was back then. I-” the Doctor pauses, tightening his grip on the chalky mug.  
“I lost her.” He says. “She was dying and I-- I couldn’t save her. I tried everything.”

Donna cocks her head, reaching her hand out to her companion, yet he flinches, cowering farther towards the wall.

“It--it all started with that bloody phone,” he mutters. “The texts, they just came coming, begging me to do what I couldn’t- what I promised to do- to stop her thinking all those drowning, stifling thoughts.”

He hears it buzz on the bed, creating ripples across the duvet cover, and resumes his pose of arms over ears and head between knees and heart beating rapidly--a thumpety-thump every half a second. 

“I don’t want to know what I can do if she texts me again.” He mumbles, looking up, his visibly straining, leaning towards Donna, his thoughts saying “let her in”. “She wasn’t the only one you know. There were others. There were others with the same fate. The one’s I was too late to help--I’m so sorry so s-s-sorry please don’t do-don’t let them die because of- of me.” he sobs, tears gushing down his face, as rain after thunderstorms.

Donna nods. “It wasn’t your fault, y’know, you couldn’t have pred-”

“I can’t go back there. I just can’t, I can’t.” he interrupts, his knuckles white-adorned and pale as his fingers release the mug and desperately claw at his arms, releasing a groan with every breath. He lifts his shirt over his nose, wiping the tears with the now-soaked cloth. 

He glowers at Donna, frightened as a bunny rabbit.

“I-- I can't breathe.” he says. “I- I can’t-can’t--”

The Doctor’s heart feels like a hummingbird’s wing speed, 49 mph. He stands up, leaning his weight against the wall, his socks against the floor, exhaling gruesome breaths and stepping from moment to moment to regain balance. 

“D-don” But his breath adjourns his speaking. He clutches his shirt perilously, pressing his body tight against itself, tight against the wall. Donna picks up the mug and rushes over to his side.  
“Doctor, breathe,” she says, but her companion only gasps for air. He shuts his eyes, shaking once again. He can’t move, he’s winded out, like a wind-up toy at the end of it’s course. He stands still, pale hands over eyes back pressed, flushed with the wall.

He stands there for a minute, eyes closed in shock, a minute to just be. The pressure of his thoughts, of his past, of his physical body, heavy against his mind, impotent against the caterwauls of his head.He can't do it anymore, he breathes harshly, every moment a knife to his gut, every exhale blood spewing from his wounds. He can-

Suddenly, a wave of exhaustion heaves over Ten, his limbs resolve the harsh and hasty movements and begin to droop at his sides. 

“‘M sorry, Don-nuh” he breathes, stumbling as Donna puts the mug down to reach out and let him fall into her arms. She gently conveys him to his bed, allowing him to plop and lie down on the quilts. 

“G’night, Doctor,” Donna says quietly. “I truly hope it eases soon.”

She hears him mumble aimlessly as he, fatigued, curls slowly into a ball.

“You don’t deserve what they had done to you.” Donna whispers, sitting down next to him.

And so she stays, into the dark hours of the night, making sure her friend did not wake into a frightened state of mind. And the Doctor falls asleep, calmly into black, dream-less abyss.


End file.
